


the thing about gardens

by fadewords



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Gen, Loneliness, Pre-Canon, the clay family features in the way rain does in the rippled pages of an old book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 19:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadewords/pseuds/fadewords
Summary: The thing about gardens, Caduceus thinks as he kneels in the grass before a pink flower, fingers dug in the soil around it, breaking it apart gently.The thing, he thinks, digging deeper, reaching beyond the roots, scooping around them.The thing is that they grow.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	the thing about gardens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [illumimorow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumimorow/gifts).



_The thing about gardens_ , Caduceus thinks as he kneels in the grass before a pink flower, fingers dug in the soil around it, breaking it apart gently.

 _The thing_ , he thinks, digging deeper, reaching beyond the roots, scooping around them. "Sorry, sorry, I know. I don't mean to be disruptive. Hope I haven't pinched anything." He keeps digging, gentler.

_The thing is that they grow._

"Okay, here we go. Forgive me, I just need to…."

He pulls up the tiny flower from below, cradling the mass of dirt that protects its roots. He rests it gently in his lap, sideways, and combs through the dirt, checking tendril after tendril for any sign of a purple that isn't really purple, a gray that isn't really gray.

He finds nothing.

He checks again. _Again_. He finds nothing.

He breathes out. Closes his eyes for a beat of one, two, three.

Opens them again, reaches for the little clay pot near his hip, and settles the flower inside. Readjusts the soil, pats it gently.

"There. Cozy, I hope?" He sets the pot in his lap. "We'll get you settled in just a minute, I promise. I just, uh…."

And he sits, for a while. Not really thinking, just...breathing. Feeling the wind in his hair, just this side of crisp. The sun on his face, just a bit removed, as though from through a cloud. Not warm, but not chill either. Not —

Caduceus reaches for his staff, pulls himself upright. It's a bit awkward, always is, after so long in the dirt, especially since...well. Since he and Calliope had words. And moreso with only one hand, the other clutching the little pot to his chest.

But he manages, of course, in increments, and with a pause, after, for the ringing in his ears to fade, for the fog over his eyes to go.

And then he makes his way, slowly, further into the garden.

Not that there is much further to go. He's been working right up close to the second wall, after all, the one he and Colton and Calliope built together, before…well. Before.

This is the last of the flowers that grow near it. Most of the others have gone, and those that haven't, he's moved. Dug up, placed in pots, like this one, with fresh soil from deeper in the garden, closer to the center. And set down again, still in the pots, some distance from the wall.

Just a precaution.

It hasn't begun to crumble, not like the first wall, and there are no vines creeping over it to strangle the little pink flowers below. It may well be fine. They may well be safe.

But there's something in the growths along the ground, on the other side of the wall, in their color and trajectory...and something in the taste in the air, the smell.

And, well, maybe it's nothing. Probably it's nothing. He's jumped at shadows before and likely will again.

But the flowers are so near the wall, is the thing. And if nothing else, they'll have a little more room now, not squished so close to it. A little more room, in the center of their pots, and a little more sun.

So they'll be better able to grow.

And that's the thing, he thinks. They need to grow. That's what gardens are for.

And he needs to help them. That's what a gardener is for.

So...yeah.

He sets the little flower down, after a few paces, summons a gentle sprinkling of water for it. Murmurs a few kind words, thanks for its patience, its understanding, a promise to give it some peace, time to adjust, and come back for a chat later.

And then he goes back to the temple.

-

It's quiet, inside.

It's always rather quiet, of course, no matter where he is in the garden. That's just the way of things of late. The only sounds are soft — wind through the trees, insects scuttling through leaves, perhaps buzzing or chittering at odd pitches, the wards singing soft and low.

But inside the temple, these are somewhat dulled. Muffled by thick stone.

And so it is quiet.

-

He fills the silence, here and there. His staff buzzes intermittently alongside him, the beetles' song familiar, unchanging, if not quite constant. The wood clacks gently on the stone underfoot as he walks.

He taps it extra, now and then, when he stands still. Not out of necessity but absentmindedness. Sometimes to wake the beetles for the sake of doing it. Sometimes just — just for the extra noise.

It's kind of nice.

-

Some days, he leaves the staff be and moves round the temple with his hands pressed to the walls for balance instead.

It's what he used to do, in the old days. Before.

When the dizziness was new. When he had no staff, not yet. When his holy symbol was still the earring he carved himself with his aunt's direction, and not the crystal he has now memorized the shape of beneath his fingers.

Before he pulled that crystal from the earth and Colton asked his favorite tree to lend a limb and Calliope called forth beetles and Clarabelle cultivated fungus and all three of them together shaped, with his aunt's guidance….

Before.

-

But that's only some days. And only inside.

When he tends the garden, outside, he brings the staff. He must.

There are no walls to lean on, out among the graves. No shelves. No tables.

There are gravestones, of course, but they aren't tall enough. Too low to the ground.

Once upon a time, he could ask to borrow a shoulder, instead. He rarely did, of course — why, when he already had a staff? When he could stoop a little among the gravestones, or walk on his knees? No, there was little sense in asking.

But he could have.

And now, of course...well, stooping hurts his back, and his knees can't take that kind of strain.

So the staff it is. And just as well — it's a lovely thing. A gift, and a work of art. It ought to be used. Appreciated.

So he makes sure it's both, as often as possible.

-

But still, but still —

Some days it sits outside.

-

Caduceus wanders the temple, sometimes. It isn't a very big place. The wandering doesn't go very far.

But that's okay. He's never been one for wandering anyway.

-

He pauses at bits of history in the temple, sometimes. Not the important things. Not sites of legend, stories Colton told him or his father told him or his aunt or his mother about important bits of family history that happened here or there — not the place out back they say the piece of hero was buried. Not the place his father's eyes met his mother's for the first time. Not the place their great uncle stood when he performed a great magic.

He trails his hand over marks in a little table. Swirls carved in the wood. (Colton, showing off his carving skills before Caduceus came along.) He skims his eyes over a chip in the stone, behind a door. (Calliope slammed it, once, several seasons ago.) A squeaky cabinet door, low to the ground. (Hinges rusted from Caduceus's first attempt at creating water, showing off for Clarabelle.)

He doesn't linger on them overmuch. Standing and sighing, it doesn't do much good. Waste of time, of energy. And there is work to be done.

Still. He pauses, sometimes. He remembers. He wonders what they're up to now.

And he smiles, and sets back to work.

-

The little food plot needs attention, daily. Relocating non-food plants. Encouraging insects to find other homes. Watering. Harvesting.

And the gravestones need upkeep — the inscriptions, especially, they're so old. He isn't to re-carve them, of course, time and nature will wear as time and nature do, and that isn't for him to interfere with. But a gentle hand, now and then, to sweep away fallen leaves, or brush away excess dirt, or tend the lichen beginning to grow over the words...well, that's just polite, isn't it?

And the graves themselves need checking, to be sure nothing's getting restless beneath. (Nothing _should_ , not here, not with the wards singing clear and warm, but still, but still. It's good to check.)

Other plants need tending. Watering. Relocating, now and then. Speaking to, often.

And the wards need checking. A listening ear, always. A part of the mind constantly attuned to that low, steady note.

And the walls need watching. For intruders beyond, trying to get in. For purple-gray tendrils, curling silently overtop, or peeking through, and squeezing on their way, crushing, crumbling the stone to dust.

(Irony, maybe. Calliope would call it irony. He'd want to tell her to shut up, but Colton would get there first, so he'd end up backing her up instead. And she'd know exactly the reason why, and grin about it. And then there would be an argument until finally Corrin —)

There's a lot needs doing.

-

And so he works.

-

For...some time, after moving the little flower, weeks, maybe, or...or maybe just days? Long enough for the seasons to change, certainly, but it's hard to say exactly how far into the last season they were to start with…nearly through, he thinks, but again. Hard to say.

For _some time_ after moving the little flowers, he leaves them in their pots. Continues to check their petals daily for discoloration, just as he checks the walls for vines, for crumbling.

They begin to wither slightly, with the changing of the seasons, but that's to be expected. Winters in the grove are always mild, so mild, but they _are_ still winters, and these flowers are so delicate.

And they've been in pots for so long, kept apart from the earth….

Well. Maybe he should finally re-plant them properly. They may not recover right away, but perhaps in the spring they'll bloom again — and even if not, when they decompose, something new can grow where they stood, from the nutrients they left behind in the soil.

Yeah.

Yeah, it's time.

Caduceus nods to himself and begins.

-

The first flower he re-plants is fine, when he checks it later in winter. Still bright, and no purple-gray anywhere, from root to petal. The second has withered, and the third, fourth, and fifth.

The sixth and final flower is also fine and not remotely discolored, but his stomach twists the instant he touches it.

Automatically, he turns to face the spot he pulled it from. And there is a crack in the stone.

He stands, hand tight on his staff, and does not bother waiting for the whine to clear from his ears or the fog from his eyes. He walks straight over to the wall. Crouches down.

Visible, not yet reaching through the crack but resting on the other side — a familiar purple-gray.

Caduceus stands again, leaning heavily on his staff. Peers over the wall, and.

"...Mm."

The vines have begun to creep along the bottom of the wall. Several thick roots have nearly reached it. One, in particular, already has.

That's what made the crack.

Caduceus rests a hand atop the wall and closes his eyes. Some fifty feet down, in the direction of his weaker knee, there's a set of carvings. There are other sets, spaced at regular intervals, but these…these are lichen-filled. Calliope's idea, Caduceus's execution, set within Colton's handiwork. Maintained by himself, for seasons upon seasons now.

He knows the shape of them by heart. Could trace them in his sleep. Can only hope that he can carve them just as well.

He'll have to.

They're going to need a third wall.

-

It takes days. It takes weeks.

The first wall was built before he came along. He helped reinforce it several times, and was always one set of hands among many, and the work went quickly, cheerfully. (There were also murmured conversations among the adults when they thought he could not hear, in troubled tones. Even then, amidst optimism and casual lessons, this was serious.)

The second wall had only three sets of hands, and the work was slower, and more serious, sure, but there was some conversation along the way. There were stories told. Jokes shared. Plans made. (There were also arguments. Insults slung. Blocks of near-silence, but for his own gentle humming between heavy breaths. It was not a happy project, they were not happy people, for all Colton tried to lighten things as well as direct them, for all Calliope's unflinching acceptance and stubborn pride in the work, his own soft smile and stern peacekeeping.)

This third wall, of course, has only one set of hands for its building. It is odd. Sour in the back of his throat, when he thinks too long about it.

It is slow. He is only one person, and his joints are not the strongest. If he knew how to shape stone, as his parents did, as Calliope did, perhaps it might be a little faster, a little easier.

But he doesn't. Not yet. He's close, he thinks. Given time, he will know it. Will feel his way to it, as he has every other spell the Mother has shown him, gifted him.

But he does not have time.

So he builds by hand. Stone by stone. Hour by hour, day by day, week by week.

He pauses here and there, when his joints begin to fail him, acknowledging the limits of his body as the Wildmother wills...but never too long. Cycles of energy such as these are a part of life to be respected, yes, and so rest is important, of course — but so is duty.

And so he does not rest for long.

He builds, and he builds, and he builds. Alone, and slow.

But not quiet.

He speaks to the garden as he works. He sings old songs, when he has more breath to spare. He hums new tunes, when he has less. He breathes, when there is nothing else.

It is such slow going that he can hardly breathe, sometimes, for visions of vines overtaking the temple.

When this happens, he shakes his head. He tries to smile. He keeps moving.

-

The wall is finished, finally, after more days than he cares to count. The temple is not overtaken.

He carves the sigils. He fills one set with lichen. The temple is not overtaken.

He listens carefully to the wards. He checks the new wall. He notes the places he must fix tomorrow. Gaps he must fill manually, without the ability to shape stone.

And he retreats to the temple, which is not overtaken.

And he sleeps.

-

He sleeps for nearly a full day, then gets up and fills all the gaps with mud, and then sleeps half again as long.

-

It takes two seasons for him to recover properly, after. Two seasons of weakness and aches and leaning on the walls for balance even with his staff in hand and wanting always to sleep, just sleep.

But it's worth it.

The wall is strong. The temple stands. The grove yet lives. The garden —

-

It gets to him, sometimes. The wall.

The size of it.

Not because of how long it took to build, or how much it cost him.

But because the second, for all it was built faster, was bigger. And the first even larger than that. This new wall, this third, his own creation…it's tiny, in comparison.

It isn't….

It's hard to put into words, even in his own head. He knows them, has them, could put them in order if he truly wished. It's just hard.

The outer edges of the grove, cut off once again. Parts of the grove he remembers fondly — familiar graves, favorite berry bushes, hollow trees — gone. And not _just_ gone. Twisted, warped. Unnatural and violent, all fond memory drained and replaced with that...awful wrongness. Malevolence where home should be.

And how many times will this happen, before the corruption is stopped? How many walls will he need to build? How small will it get, before everything ends — one way or another?

The garden he loves and is sworn to protect, shrinking ever-smaller-and-smaller, until —

-

Caduceus waters the flowers. Tends the graves and the vegetables. Makes tea. Talks to the plants. Talks to the plants. Talks to the plants.

They need conversation, is the thing. It keeps them growing strong, keeps them happy.

They're living beings — they like to be acknowledged, while they're here. They like to know they'll be remembered, when they're gone.

That's the thing about gardens, really.

They're supposed to grow, sure — all people are supposed to grow in one sense or another — but mostly they're just supposed to be alive.

-

 _The trouble_ , Caduceus thinks, over seasons and seasons to come, as he looks out over the third wall at the six little points he knows flowers once grew, as he watches purple-gray somethings creep up from their resting places and inch slowly closer and closer to his desperate stonework.

 _The trouble_ , he thinks, with the ghost of a smile on his lips, _is they're also supposed to die._

**Author's Note:**

> would yall believe i wrote this less than a week before cad mentioned them there walls again - damn near shrieked that thursday
> 
> as always im findable on tumblr at arodrwho


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